Love Letters

The Gold Berries

I ate the gold berries 

though the frosted green doctors told me no,

though their eyes flashed 

their eyes flashed

their eyes flashed with green vernissage.

But I knew I’d never get me from the stump of the world

if I listened to their emerald evergreen words.

I’ve got a big rainbow to follow, said I.

I ate the gold berries, the taste sharp as plum lemon.

My limbs turned to banana legs. My eyes became lucid gems.

I floated down 

floated down

floated down the river, down the long milky way.

I drank the waters — crimson sweet they were.

I am living, said I. I’m alive.

I ate the gold berries and it was worth it, say I.

For I saw Egyptian walking onions 

all flat and sideways, pungent and hot as anything.

I danced 

I danced

I danced round the Kentucky wonder pole,

me, a collective farm woman!

I swung the extra long handle dipper gourd

and scooped me a handful of moon and stars.

And the greatest prize of all — Dingwall Scotty.

A country gentleman, a real long keeper,

handsome as a duplex Russian giant, prize of the trials.

Your eyes, he said, are blue of Hungaria, blue hokkaido, blue hubbard.

Your lips, are honey boat delicata.

Love struck 

Love struck

Love struck like a white globe hailstone.

We had a Nebraska wedding, supped on gold berry cake

iced with white wonder, topped with an ivory egg.

Our giant oxhearts beat big enough 

for the whole mammoth sandwich island

to rumble and shake 

rumble and shake

rumble and shake.

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:April is a time for planting things (at least where I am, in Washington DC – you may still be waiting for spring, or well into some other season!) At any rate, I’ve recently been paging through seed catalogs, many of which feature “heirloom” seeds with fabulous names. Consider the “Old Ivory Egg” tomato, the “Ozark Razorback” or “Fast Lady” cow-pea, “Neal’s Paymaster” dent corn, or the “Tongues of Fire” bush bean. Today, I challenge you to spend some time looking at the names of heirloom plants, and write a poem that takes its inspiration from, or incorporates the name of, one or more of these garden rarities. To help you out, here are links to the Southern Exposure Seed Exchange and the Baker Creek Seed Company. Also, here’s a hint – tomatoes seem to be prime territory for elaborate names. And who knows, maybe you’ll even find something to plant in your garden! Happy writing!

Sea Change

Love's Memory

At night, in the old graveyard, we kissed.

By daylight, I looked for your face but found only ghosts.

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt: I’d like to challenge you to write a landay. Landays are 22-syllable couplets, generally rhyming. The form comes from Afghanistan, where women often use it in verses that range from the sly and humorous to the deeply sardonic and melancholy. Check out this long investigative article on landays for a fascinating look into a form of poetry often composed in secret, and rarely written down. You could try to write a single landay – a hard-hitting couplet that shares some secret (or unspoken) truth, or you could try to write a poem that strings multiple landays together like stanzas (maybe something akin to a syllabic ghazal?)

I guess it's too late to get a dog

After Bernadette Mayer

I guess it's too late to get a dog.
I haven't been trained 
for the smoky warmth 
of an animal. 
I have never known how 
to inhale that damp, doggy smell,
how to keep my balance
at the friend's door 
when the dog pounces, 
sniffs me, scrambles with his paws 
like I'm the face of a cliff.
I don't know what to do
with all that love.

I guess it's too late to get a dog.
But I was born in The Year of the Dog.
There must be a little bit of dog in me.
I could roll in the grass, 
run round bushes and trees,
rumble with the sky, 
growl low, deep growls.
Then, maybe, I would understand dog 
and dog would understand me.
I'd slap my thighs,
call in a loud, dog-owner voice,
and he'd come running fast.
He'd charge me with his love.

I guess it's too late to get a dog.
But if I did get a dog,
I would gaze into those eyes –
those soggy, loving eyes –
that know me, look for me,
wait for me to come home.
I'd say, 'I've come home, boy,
I'm home.'
If I got a dog,
he would nose his big nose
under the warm duvet, 
sniff my feet, snuffle and huff. 
The silence would not be complete 
without his breath.

I guess it's too late to get a dog.

I haven't been trained

for all that love.   
But still I light the fire, 
we would sit beside –
him and me –
prepare to breathe 
that sweet wood scent,
that damp, doggy smell
and, with it, the rain and the earth.

From yesterday's NaPoWriMo prompt, this poem was inspired by Bernadette Mayer's 'Essay'. Mayer's poem begins, 'I guess it's too late to live on the farm...'

Made in Italy

Double Date

When you avert my gaze

it seems as though you are shy,

as though I’m some beautiful girl

who wouldn’t want to know you.

Perhaps you are

star gazing,

divining futures from the clouds,

the tops of trees,

cranes, kites.

We drink our coffee

and still

you do not look me in the eye. 

Instead you gaze at the space around my head

as if I exist there beside myself,

another me 

to whom you can address your comments, 

another me 

who will hear you better,

will answer you in some enigmatic way.

I grow jealous of her,

knowing that to look into

the dark of her eye

is to be stripped bare

and once seen like that

you can never be clothed again

no matter how many brightly coloured shirts you try.